shape-shifters on the horizon looming like clouds

The mountain stream, pure and cold flows
swiftly into pumpkin and juniper seeds and docile rivers
no higher than a knee,
and the river bends through
the painted earth and snakes its way into the myopic sea.

The bloodstone roots with childhood's end.
The moon, hanging loosely, shape-shifts into images,
clouds
blow away like old men puffing on hand-rolled cigars.

Another drop of water into the ocean does not change its surface
stillness.
Life is an invitation. Ephemeral links to all that is tender. All that
is webbed green.
Walls are mud and stone metaphors with lopsided ears.

I no longer tether God nor my camel, I don't build walls in the middle
of nowhere; I don't burden my sad-eyed donkey with swirling sand
or minarets of prayer.

Okay, you know I don't like free verse, but this is beautiful. The language is evocative and crisply descriptive. Since you note that it is a rough draft, might I suggest revisiting some of the line breaks? A couple of spots separated a single word that grew stronger with the separation. Some did not.
The ending is powerful and should be left alone.
It really is tragic you don't enjoy rhyme.
Just marvelous language.
wesley

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley